


burning the memories

by takethebreadsticksandRUN



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: But what else is new?, Comforting Each Other, M/M, TMAHCWeek2020, Tender - Freeform, allow them to feel normal human/eldritch emotions, as a treat, day TWO of the challenge folks this is a blast, emotional hurt/comfort (past), jon is repressed, martin is a great boyfriend change my mind, post episode 169 "Fire Escape", the boys can be angsty, tw discussions of abandonment, tw vague-ish description of a burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26110618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethebreadsticksandRUN/pseuds/takethebreadsticksandRUN
Summary: Written for TMA Hurt/Comfort week. Day two prompt- distracting from injuries/confession/fear.Ash coated Martin’s mouth, gritting his teeth and tongue. If he tried to speak the words would be garbled, spit thickened with the dust. If he tried to speak his throat would surely burn with the fire of what now lay behind them, smoking gently. If he tried to speak his eyes would sting and his lips would crack, making each carelessly shaped letter a chore.If he tried to speak it would cost him. It’s a good thing, then, that he hasn't spoken for several hours.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894012
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	burning the memories

**Author's Note:**

> i have had this idea in my drafts folder for MONTHS so glad i finally used it! really enjoying this challenge, anybody who wants to should join in! check tumblr for the prompt list and get writing folks. please let me know what you think!  
> xxx

Ash coated Martin’s mouth, gritting his teeth and tongue. If he tried to speak the words would be garbled, spit thickened with the dust. If he tried to speak his throat would surely burn with the fire of what now lay behind them, smoking gently. If he tried to speak his eyes would sting and his lips would crack, making each carelessly shaped letter a chore.

If he tried to speak it would cost him. It’s a good thing, then, that he hasn't spoken for several hours.

Beside him, Jon walked slow, so much slower than usual. Feather-light footsteps turned weighty and pained, his head hung lopsided on narrow shoulders. His shirt had several burn holes in it, revealing scarred flesh, but other than that he seemed to be fine.

On the outside at least. The Beholding was unnaturally quiet, not supplying him with bits of information that had to be blurted out lest they poison him, helpfully remaining silent when Martin couldn't find it in him to speak.

Martin supposed they had gotten out of the Desolation easy, by normal means. No permanent damage, no lost friends found in the worst places, nothing they could have done better to save those poor people.

The fire hadn't touched Martin but still, his hand burned. _I hit him_. With a side glance at Jon, he bit his lip, holding back words he couldn't say. What could he say that hadn't been said before? What could he say that Jon didn't already Know? His hand burned, itching to reach out and hold onto Jon's like it was his last lifeline. The last bit of thread keeping him tied to this horrible, awful place full of people he couldn't save and monsters he couldn't defeat.

"Jon? Are you okay?"

The sharp _k_ bit at his mouth on the way out, reminding him of the rawness behind his teeth. He let the words go, releasing them like a small cloud of fatally hopeful insects.

Jon's footsteps stuttered for a moment before resuming their steady pace. "I'm-fine. I'm fine, Martin."

"Jon..." he warned. “ _Talk to me._ ”

“What do you want me to say, Martin?” His voice was tired, hollow as the dip of his clavicle as he laughed. It wasn’t humorous, more like the sound you might make when there is nothing else to do. Laugh and pray. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know-“ Jon cut off with a small gasp of pain, hastily stifled.

Martin stopped walking and gently tugged Jon to face him, cradling his jaw in one hand. “Are you hurt?”

There was that laugh again and Martin _hated_ it. Hated how it reminded him of a time when Jon would laugh, free and easy, at the simplest thing, turning to look at him with a gleam in his eyes that said _get it? It made me happy, I want it to make you happy_. And he would grin, kissing that little smile, both warm and safe.

The memory shivered, melting into the present, where laughter wasn’t a treasure and smiles, rare as they were, were often full of things that _hurt_.

“That’s not an answer,” he said sternly, trying to be brave enough, strong enough for the both of them.

Instead of replying, Jon pulled back the sleeve of his shirt, revealing a burn on his forearm and wrist in the shape of a hand, fingers extending around his bones.

Martin swallowed. It was a nasty burn, the skin charred and blackened in places, in others, angry red that threatened to burst back into flame. It was the old wound Jude Perry had given him so long ago when the monster they were hunting was unknown. “What happened?”

If Jon noticed what a dumb question it was he didn’t notice. “I, uh-“ He winced, trying to shake the sleeve back down, his eyes watering in barely concealed pain. “Well, it’s the old burn, but for some reason being back near the Lightless Flame- and _her_ -“

The venom with which Jon spat the word startled him, an old heat back in his voice. He continued, “-made it worse, somehow?”

Martin took hold of his elbow, brushing back the fabric and examining the burn again. “Does it hurt much?”

“Not really.” Jon tried to sound nonchalant, of course a silly little burn wouldn’t hurt him, but failed when he brushed a thumb across the very edge of it and jerked his hand away.

Martin raised an eyebrow.

“It hurts a little,” he amended. “But it could have been worse, I mean-“ He rushed to speak before Martin could. “We were in the _Desolation_ for heaven’s sake, a little burn is to be expected. I’ll be fine.”

He frowned. “You’re hurting.”

Jon didn’t deny it. How could he, when the story was written so plainly in his face?

“Hang on, the fire didn’t touch me, I don’t think I have any burns…” He trailed off, running his eyes over his body.

“Believe me, you would know.” Jon’s face was dark with pain, irony, and was it possible? a little fear?

“Yeah,” Martin said slowly, “I’m all good. Huh, that’s weird.”

“Why?”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, we just collapsed a burning building and I didn’t get a scratch.”

Jon managed a small smile, lips twisting in a way that seemed painful. “I told you, I won’t let them touch you.”

Martin leaned forward and kissed him, just once, gently on the lips, before encircling him with his arms. “Thank you,” he mumbled into Jon’s neck.

He whistled through his teeth, his burn rubbing painfully against the fabric of Martin’s jacket. “I love you,” he said, slightly strangled.

“Oh! You’re hurt! Sorry, sorry…” He broke away, looking guilty.

“It’s- it’s fine, Martin, we should probably keep going.”

He scoffed. “What, with you injured? I don’t think so, can I have a better look at it?”

“I don’t think it works like that anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jon shook his head ruefully, “comfort. Safety. Not things we’re allowed to have anymore.”

“Rubbish. I’m going to make sure my boyfriend is okay, and whether or not I’m _allowed_ to is completely up to us, not some capitalist who decided that they were- were the _god_ of this new world or whatever-“

Jon laughed, this time sounding a little more human than before. “That’s not what I meant.”

Martin pouted slightly. “Then what _do_ you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, turning his wrist back and forth, letting the ghostly light play across it, “I don’t think anything can help with this. She did mark me, the first time around, you know.”

“But this is different.”

“Is it? This is still a, a _mark_ , but it just serves a different purpose than it used to. It’s a reminder now, I think.”

Martin was quiet, tentative. “A reminder of what?”

Jon grimaced as the skin stretched painfully over bird bones, flexing his fingers. “A penance. A brand. A reminder that I can never truly be free of the things I’ve done. The old ghosts will always be out to get me, and more often than not, they can still touch me.” His voice was filled with pain and fear, a terror that rarely surfaced.

“Oh, Jon…”

“It’s- fine. Can we keep going, please? It helps if I don’t have to think about it.”

Martin nodded, positioning himself so he could hold Jon’s unburned but not unblemished hand. They walked in silence once more, a thousand unspoken things no longer needing to be said.

“Do you know why I hate fire?”

Jon furrowed his brow. “You said you hate how burns scar.”

“Yeah, I did, but that’s not- that’s not the whole story.”

“Do you want me to Know-know or…?”

Martin let out a breath. “No, I just- my dad left when I was really little.”

He said nothing, letting him tell the story on his own, allowing the abrupt change in conversation to slip without comment

“I was maybe eight or so? So, old enough to remember him. He took me camping a few times, you know. I loved it. Being outside, basically lost in the woods, nobody around for miles, just me and him…” He smiled softly at the memory. “Sleeping under the stars, roasting marshmallows and sausages- he was always the best at building a fire, one that would burn for hours. _Build the wood in the shape of a house, make a home for the fire. Give it a home and it will be happy_ , he always said.” Martin swallowed, his voice hardening now. “I guess that’s true for most things, isn’t it? But not always…”

Jon squeezed his hand, prompting him to keep talking.

“The point is, he always smelled like woodsmoke those days. It was comforting, I knew I was safe when I was around that smell.”

“But then…” he murmured.

Martin rubbed his neck with his free hand. “Yeah, then he left. I remember my mum screaming at him, telling him to get out, to take his things and leave. I hid in my room, trying to count my breaths to keep from crying. I got to thirteen- heh, unlucky thirteen- before the door slammed. And then he was gone.”

Jon looked up at him, trying to read his expression. He couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he tried, unsure of what to say.

“Thanks, it’s not your fault.”

“It’s not your fault either.”

“I know, at least I do now…” His eyes were downcast, trained on the ground. “Anyways, I came downstairs and found my mum sitting at the table, ripping all of his old papers into shreds, cutting up his shirts and things. I asked her what she was doing and she just glared at me, her eyes red. That was the only time I ever saw her cry. I watched as she took a little lighter that he used to use and flicked it, holding the flame to our family photo. It swallowed our little family so fast, the smiles turning to ash before my eyes. She burned everything of his, most of it going into this great big bonfire out back that I stared at, terrified, as everything I knew and loved vanished into the cloud of smoke.”

“Did it… burn you then?”

Martin chuckled drily. “Not like that, no, I didn’t dare go near it. But there is more than one way to be burned, to have something seared so painfully that you never really forget the ache. I found the last photo of him under the fridge when we moved a few weeks later. Mum- she, uh, gave me the lighter. Made me burn it. When it was done she crushed the lighter under her foot outside, told me we were _burning him out of our lives._ I don’t think she realized that fire burns the one who carries it just as much as the one who is being seared.”

Jon was silent when he stopped talking, soaking in the tale. “So that’s why you don’t like fire?”

Martin didn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah. Stupid reason, I know, but something always associates burning with _him_ , and I just don’t want to think about it. Plus the scars,” he added as an afterthought.

“Plus the scars,” he agreed.

Martin raised his hand to his lips, kissing it gently. “On you, though, they look quite hot.”

Jon choked. “Was that a _pun_ , Martin Blackwood?” 

“Yes, it _was_.”

“No need to sound so smug about it.”

He laughed, twining their fingers closer together.

And for once, the pain from Jon’s burn didn’t seem as present, melting into the background as he listened to the hum of Martin’s voice.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me your favorite part and i am eternally bound to you by debts of gratitude


End file.
